


Aim Above Morality

by lonelywalker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will has a panic attack at a crime scene, he needs Hannibal to help him find himself again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim Above Morality

_Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life.  
\- Henry David Thoreau_

It was the voices that led him astray.

The crime scene was simple enough, at least in terms of its geography: an old and lovely home just isolated enough for privacy and tranquility, just isolated enough that even the nearest neighbor couldn’t hear the screams.

A steep stone stairway led down from the driveway to a wooden door, and inside was the waiting room, small and sparse, but decorated with colorful Mayan-style wall hangings. Next was the office. In neither of these rooms was any sense of space. The psychiatrist’s method relied on intimacy and comfort, embracing her patients with the physicality of four walls rather than a warm body. Still, the message was the same: here you cannot be harmed, here you will always be safe.

Last night, a killer had contorted that message almost beyond recognition.

Will descended the stairway alone, his steps as sure as the killer’s must have been. He had known this place, walked down these steps more than a dozen times. Perhaps he had customarily been her last patient at night. He knew when she would be alone, the outer door still unlocked as she completed her notes. And yet he paused in the waiting room, as he would have done more than a dozen times before. This time no politeness was involved. He wanted to feel the weight of the knife in his hand. He wanted to savor the moment.

She knew him. She barely looked up, wanting to preserve the thought, finish the sentence she was writing in the file. “I think you must have the wrong time,” she’d said. “We’re meeting tomorrow, aren’t we?”

It had been a long, long time before she’d died.

Beverly had explained the likely order of the wounds when he’d arrived, but they made sense even without the medical evidence. They made perfect sense. If his only wish was to expose the lie of her treatment, to show her that even her protective inner sanctum could be violated in every way, there was only one way he would have done it. He had wanted her to see everything, to _know_ everything. He had wanted her to understand precisely what was coming, and in that same instant to know there was nothing and no one who could prevent it.

Of course he’d enjoyed it. With every whimper and howl and scream, he’d been proven right.

Will turned back toward the door, letting out a huff of breath that was his own again. They’d all dutifully waited for him at the top of the stairs, Jack on the phone, demanding that the Bureau’s lawyers find a way to get into the victim’s records immediately, patient confidentiality be damned. Hannibal had been sitting on the low wall that bordered the garden, brow knitted in contemplation, perhaps troubled by the death of a colleague. Will had wanted to reassuringly squeeze his shoulder through his bulky overcoat, but that was far from their professional relationship and, besides, he had far more on his mind.

What had their last words been to each other? What would you say to your killer, your victim? For some reason, this time it mattered. The options rang through his head in voices he had never heard, but could only be imagining. They seemed as clear as if they were both standing here next to him, still alive, still breathing.

The next breath he took in, attempting to gather his strength before bolting up the stairs to tell Jack everything, was far too shallow, his chest constricting tightly, forcing the breath out of him, his head already buzzing with panic. He thought of an asthma attack, an allergic reaction, while knowing neither of those was the answer, and then all possible answers were shut out, his mind closed down by a simple survival instinct while all his body’s natural responses to danger were hindered by his fast, gasping breaths, none really taking in much oxygen.

He was dimly aware of someone in the doorway, some unfamiliar agent hesitantly asking if he was okay. They probably thought this was part of his process. How long had he been in here? How long could he go on standing? He imagined, thought he imagined, his vision darkening, his knees buckling. Unconsciousness would have been a blessing. But still he stood, the agents gathering in the narrow doorway a flood of dark blue, suffocating him. He wanted them _away_. He wanted them all away, miles away. He was too hot, dizzy, his vision filled with the red of blood although he was no longer even looking at the corpse hung from the light fixture, deafened by screams that could only be inside his head.

And then the wall of blue jackets parted. “Will?”

Will tried to fight him off, push him away. _Too close, just let me breathe…_ But he was too weak, too disoriented, and he was wrapped up tightly by warm arms. He laid his head on a broad shoulder and closed his eyes, unable to fight off the inevitable anymore…

The breath came in a rush of cold air, so surprising he gasped, surprised even that he could gasp at all. The breath brought with it a scent he’d come to recognize, a scent he refused to believe came from a bottle. It was the scent he woke up to most mornings, at least in the last few weeks. 

“Hannibal?” He couldn’t be sure he even made a sound.

But Hannibal said “Shh,” still holding him, still rubbing his back, fingers in his hair. “You’re with me now.”

When he blinked open his eyes, squinting in the suddenly too-harsh lighting, the swarm of blue jackets was still there, broken by a gray suit Will guessed had to be Jack, but he couldn’t deal with any of it, could barely deal with breathing. He let his heavy eyelids close and tried to focus only on Hannibal. Hannibal was real and solid, a true safe place, not like the victim’s four walls, not like the killer’s illusory control over human life. Ever since they’d met, Hannibal’s every word, every motion, and presumably every thought, had been so assured that Will could hardly believe anyone could ever hurt him. In his arms, Will didn’t have to worry about breathing. He didn’t have to worry about anything. He could just fall asleep on Hannibal’s shoulder, like he’d done several times before, and surely Hannibal, strong, solid Hannibal, would hold him till he woke.

Finally, when minutes or hours or days had passed, he managed to clear his throat. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

He’d wondered in the past how Hannibal could speak what was his second or third language with such confidence, such precision, when Will could just about stumble through his native tongue. He nodded, his cheek rubbing against Hannibal’s coat.

Even when he straightened up, Hannibal’s hand was on his arm, as if afraid that he might keel over. “Could I have some water please?”

Outside, at the top of the stairs, he felt better in the fresh air, sipping from a water bottle someone had fetched him from a kit bag. People were staring, because he was a crazy, unreliable freak of an agent, or because Hannibal had held him like they were lovers. But who really knew what young agents thought? Will only knew he didn’t want to understand what anyone else thought or felt ever again.

“Are you all experiencing collective amnesia?” Jack barked. “I believe we have a crime scene to process, or is this a mass hallucination?”

The agents scurried to at least _look_ busy. Jack appeared at his side, between him and Hannibal. “Will?”

He was expecting a report, because whatever issues Will was having, there was still a killer on the loose, and a panic attack was nothing in comparison to the torture and murder that might be inflicted on many others.

“I, um…” He tried to think.

Hannibal stepped up beside him. “I think the best thing would be for me to take Will home. He’s clearly distressed.”

“I appreciate your concern, doctor, but we have a murderer at large.”

“Whom your agents are already diligently attempting to catch.” Hannibal grasped Will’s elbow. “I imagine the forensic evidence and the doctor’s patient files will do most of the work for you. In the meantime, my professional opinion is that Will needs some peace and quiet. He does _not_ need to be among an excited throng of people.”

Jack’s eyebrows were raised. “Your _professional_ opinion?” It didn’t take an FBI profiler to see them together and know what it meant.

“Which I believe you have respected quite frequently in the past. Once Will is in a better frame of mind, I’ll ensure you’re the first person he calls. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Will wasn’t positive he could remember how to walk, but Hannibal held his arm and marched him out of there, would probably have carried him out if necessary. He still felt numb, as if he were in a fishbowl and everything, even Hannibal, was one step removed from reality. But he sat down in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car and automatically fastened his seatbelt. Hannibal got into the driver’s side and lightly touched his thigh. “If you feel nauseous, let me know. We’ll stop.”

“Uh huh.” Will nodded. He leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes again. He really did want to sleep, sleep without sleepwalking, Hannibal not only holding him in bed but anchoring him to reality. He wanted to get _away_ and stay put at precisely the same time.

The drive wasn’t a short one and Will assumed he must have drifted off a few times for ten minutes or so as the scenery changed. His dreams were uncertain, not nightmares but something unreal.

“Are you all right?” Hannibal asked more than once at stop lights. Will nodded.

 _Home_ apparently meant Hannibal’s home, which was just fine. Will’s dogs would be perfectly happy until tomorrow and this house, unlike his own, radiated competence and sanity. Hannibal always had real food in his fridge, immaculately laundered suits in his closet. He felt like a real person, or what Will had always imagined a real person would be. 

The first time they’d kissed had also been the first time Will had brought a little of his own chaos into Hannibal’s home, spreading crime scene photos over the coffee table. They’d both come up with good ideas to discuss further in the morning, but it had been late and the coffee cups had mounted up, and all Will had wanted to do was melt into bed and stay there. “Could I possibly sleep on the couch?” he’d asked, assuming that of course the answer would be no. Hannibal’s couch was almost too nice to even sit on. 

The answer was indeed no. “I think you might be more comfortable in my guest room. Although of course there is another option.”

The next morning, although the sheets had far too high a thread count and his body was aching in interesting places, Will had still assumed it had to be a dream. Presumably he’d just passed out in that guest room after weeks filled with too many uncomfortable fantasies about Hannibal Lecter and what exactly his body might be like under those perfectly tailored suits. And yet… When he rolled over, wondering where he’d left his glasses, there was Hannibal, reading against the other stack of pillows, naked at least down to where the comforter nestled against his lower back.

“Hannibal…” Will had said uncertainly that first morning, wondering why he felt so shy about propositioning a man who had almost certainly fucked him full just hours ago.

He felt the same way now, saying that same name as Hannibal unlocked the door. Hannibal turned. “How are you feeling?”

Will took the three steps he needed to kiss him all in a rush, grabbing onto the perfect line of Hannibal’s jaw and kissing him hard. But no, no, that was all wrong, that was the confidence and violent need of someone else, someone whose head he’d been in. He stepped back, right into the door jamb. Which one was he, again? Where was the secret pocket of himself, deep in his head, where he kept himself safe?

“Will?” Hannibal’s fingertips brushed his cheek, and suddenly the answer was clear.

“I need you,” Will said in a gasp. “You’re the only thing I know that’s really me.”

Hannibal only paused for a moment and then gave Will a gentle push inside so he could shut and bolt the door. He silenced his own phone, took Will’s from the pocket of his slacks and thumbed it off, tossing both of them onto the breakfast bar. “No one gets to you until I say so.”

“Is that your… professional opinion?”

The good doctor seemed almost insulted. “Will, please.”

On most nights they went to bed together, Will was so exhausted, so drained, that Hannibal was painstakingly gentle with him. Hannibal loved to kiss him, to have Will lie there without even needing to move while Hannibal found erotic joy in places Will’s other sex partners had never bothered to touch. Will would tangle his fingers in Hannibal’s hair while Hannibal took a long, long time to bring him to orgasm with his mouth.

“Did you ever smoke?” Will had asked on one of those early nights, his cock still wet and throbbing.

Hannibal had smiled. “Ah, the oral fixation? I prefer to focus on less dangerous activities.”

“Like cooking.”

“Like cooking.”

Now, though, the weight of Hannibal’s body slammed him into the mattress. Sleep and relaxation were not the impossible goals Will wanted to aim for. He needed to _feel_ , not just erotic pleasure but his own emotion, and he couldn’t help loving the way Hannibal understood that. It wasn’t violence he needed to avoid, or even enjoyment of a certain kind of violence. It just needed to be _his_ enjoyment. His very own.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he found himself babbling as Hannibal kissed his throat, teeth just lightly grazing the sensitive skin over his jugular. “Please, please…”

He was pressing his hips up against Hannibal’s stomach, _needing_ to be aroused more than he really physically was at this point, but that would change. Normally Hannibal undressed him like a patient or a child, meticulously undoing every button. Now he sat back and tore open Will’s shirt, which was either impressive strength or a display of just how cheap Will’s shirts were. “You can have your pick of mine later,” Hannibal said, and backed off the bed to wrestle open Will’s belt and fly.

Will watched his own chest rise and fall. Breathe in, breathe out. Faster than normal now, but not those shallow, panicked breaths of the crime scene. Now he was in his own head, watching Hannibal through his own eyes, feeling Hannibal’s lips and wet, wet tongue on his rousing cock through his embarrassingly plebeian undershorts, wanting Hannibal with a force surely no one else on the planet had ever experienced and survived.

Hannibal lifted his head and Will propped himself up on his elbows to see Hannibal removing his shoes, pulling down his slacks and underwear in one fluid movement. Will wriggled out of his shirt, dropping it to one side of the bed. He focused on his own cock, fully erect now, maybe the one thing about him that wasn’t embarrassingly inadequate. His attention switched to Hannibal standing over him, still fully dressed, vest and cufflinks and all. The silence between them seemed to last for an eternity until Hannibal grasped both of his calves and tugged him down the bed, his knees at the edge, feet on the floor. And then Hannibal knelt and started kissing him.

It felt good, so good, to feel Hannibal’s lips, to anticipate coming hard in that wonderfully warm, wet, welcoming mouth. But it was everything he didn’t want this time. “Hannibal?” he said, a tiny shred of anxiety creeping into his tone.

Hannibal didn’t even glance up. “Relax,” he said. “I know what you need. Trust me.”

So Will surrendered to him, to Hannibal’s mouth lavishing attention on his cock, to the thrills of pleasure that radiated along his thighs. He wasn’t going to come, not yet, Hannibal wouldn’t let him. He just needed to lie back and enjoy it, thinking of nothing but Hannibal fully-dressed on his knees, sucking his cock. Still… Will had no illusions regarding who was really in control, and that was just fine. That was everything he needed.

Hannibal parted his thighs, pushed up so Will’s feet rested on the edge of the bed once more, his knees bent. He lifted his head from Will’s cock just long enough to spit on his index finger and then he was stroking, rubbing at Will’s asshole as Will pushed against him. Hannibal, as ever, was being too restrained, too loving, too goddamn _nice_. But Will made himself breathe, made himself be patient until Hannibal kissed the head of his cock one last time and tapped his knee. “Turn over.”

Will took a moment to rearrange the pillows under his head and hips, assuming that Hannibal was undressing, but he was still fully clothed when Will looked back over his shoulder. This pose, his legs parted, his ass begging for it, was a supremely vulnerable one, to the extent that Will had spent years never letting his partners take him from behind. Even if it was the classic, stereotypical position for men fucking men, he couldn’t bear the uncertainty, or all the images that came to him of even young, virginal students suddenly grabbing a knife and slitting his throat. He’d gotten over it long before Hannibal, but only with people he’d known for much longer.

Hannibal’s hands were on him before he could ask, tongue in the cleft of his ass. Will’s fingers involuntarily clenched on either side of his pillow. Too sensitive, too sudden, too deep. But at least it promised more. “You have such a… beautiful body,” Hannibal murmured, and Will could almost hear the words through his own flesh. “And you taste so good.”

“You’re going to make me come,” Will said. It was supposed to be a warning, but it sounded more like a plea.

The next sensation was the squirt of lubricant. “If so, I can wait.”

Will gave up and outright moaned into the pillow as Hannibal’s fingers started in on him, pressing, stretching, stroking. More lubricant, more stretching. It was as if Hannibal was the one gay man in the world who’d read the sex guides and decided to follow them to the letter. Wasn’t he achingly, disturbingly hard by now? Didn’t he _ever_ give in to his deepest desires? 

Finally, finally, Hannibal stopped and Will heard the soft sounds of buttons being undone and clothes being dropped to the floor. Later Hannibal would doubtless gather them all up and fold them neatly, promising to deliver Will his laundry in a day or two. But now, now… The bed creaked a little at Hannibal’s weight on it, his knees inside Will’s, his cock prodding Will’s ass. “Remember to breathe, Will,” Hannibal said by his ear. 

Hannibal pushing inside him was simply a relief, even though he knew from experience that Hannibal would take it slowly, gently, taking him to his climax with excruciating care. At the first jolt of Hannibal’s hips, he looked back in surprise, but any words were knocked out of him along with the breath as Hannibal did what he’d never done before and really, honestly fucked him. 

It hurt just enough to focus Will’s mind, to keep him in the present while the pressure and fullness of Hannibal’s body inside him threatened to override any thought. Hannibal kissed him between his shoulder blades, sliding his arms under and around Will’s body. “God, harder,” Will muttered. He wanted to be bruised, wanted to be hurting in the morning just so he could remember this all day, remember Hannibal, remember who he was. Hannibal did this to no one else, had maybe never done this to anyone else, so he had to be Will Graham… And even if he forgot his name, he could never forget that he belonged completely to Hannibal, had given over his body and mind that first night.

“Oh god, oh god.” He sounded like some whiny bottom in a porn vid, the kind he browsed for at 2am when he only had some weak beer for company. But now he knew what they were feeling, or at least what they were pretending to be feeling.

Hannibal pulled back. “Turn over,” he said again.

Will rolled, shoving pillows out of the way, pulling his knees up and apart before he really took in the sight of Hannibal: that pale East European or Scandinavian complexion, the askew brown hair, the thick cock dark with arousal even through the condom. It was only the condom that made him wish Hannibal had never been to medical school.

“Make me come?” he asked as Hannibal bent over him, guiding his cock back inside Will. “I need you to make me.”

Hannibal looked at him through the strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes, and smiled.

The main reason Will was very, very, endlessly glad that Hannibal had been to medical school mostly involved his intimate knowledge of the prostate. Maybe the size or shape of his cock helped. Will had never managed to retain his higher levels of thought long enough to figure it out.

It took him a while to really feel it, to distinguish that insistent warmth from the heat of Hannibal’s body, from the pleasurable fullness of Hannibal’s cock inside him, but then it was almost all he could feel, his cock again rock hard when he reached to stroke it, Hannibal’s thrusts almost knocking the breath out of him each and every time. After a while, Will simply held his breath, the better to focus on that deep, steadily expanding sensation. He needed it now so badly, even more than he needed to hurt. “Please,” he finally gasped, “please, I’ve got to…”

Perhaps Hannibal took pity on him and flipped some secret switch, or perhaps his body simply couldn’t take it anymore, but Will was coming, coming over his hand as he jerked himself, needing every bit of pleasure and come he could wring from his body. He was still shuddering, looking at the streams of semen over his fingers and belly, when Hannibal kissed him.

Will’s first feeling was guilt, guilt for forgetting that Hannibal was here too, was a real human with needs, not just an instrument to solve his problems. So it was almost a relief when Hannibal simply continued to fuck him, even after Will’s orgasmic high had tapered off and the feeling of Hannibal inside him started to really ache, his thighs burning with the strain. But then Hannibal came, not with a cry but with his eyes locked on Will’s, and that was almost as good as coming again himself.

For a while, for what he hoped was forever, Hannibal buried his face in Will’s shoulder and Will just held on until Hannibal slipped out of him and rolled over. 

“I should call Jack,” Will said. He could remember the crime scene now without flinching from the memory. This time, every time, Hannibal would be there to help pull him back.

Hannibal dipped his finger in the semen that had dripped down to Will’s belly, licked it with a thoughtful expression. “But dinner first, yes? I have a wonderful new recipe I’ve been dying to share…”

“Yes,” Will agreed, laying his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. “Dinner first.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Hannibal Kink Meme](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html) and this prompt: Just after Will snaps out of his empathetic state at a particularly disturbing crime scene, he experiences a panic attack, suffocated by the emotion of an another person. FBI agents at the scene surround him and hastily call for the medical unit but never really dare to approach him while he is gasping for breath and shuddering. Then Hannibal pushes through the surrounding agents with such a determination that no one can protest against and holds Will in his arms. He continues to stroke Will's head and back and whispers soothing words until he is finally calmed down. Then Hannibal requests Jack that he and Will leave the scene immediately, so they leave. The moment they enter Hannibal's house Will is all over Hannibal, begging to feel his own emotion and not someone else's. Hannibal gracefully accepts and fucks him into the mattress.


End file.
